


The Future That Never Was; an S4 Fix-it Fic

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bedside confession, Big Brother Mycroft, Epiphany, John Watson POV, John in a coma, M/M, Pining Sherlock, S4 was not real, Sibling Rivalry, accident S4E1, pulling threads together S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 21:46:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14341569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: How much of Season 4 was reality, and how much was a dream? How early did the fuckery start? There was an occurrence in S4E1 that may or may not be the key to unraveling the whole thing. Join John in figuring out what, exactly, happened that fateful night...





	The Future That Never Was; an S4 Fix-it Fic

“John.”

 

The deep, mellifluous voice gently insinuated itself into my brain like a summer breeze. It was warm, concerned, even... _affectionate_ , in its own way. I basked in it, smiling to myself. _I know that voice. It’s my favorite._

 

“Jo-ohn...”

 

A little more sing-songy, as if being playful, but, at the same time, that concern still lingered in the background. It _still_ wasn’t enough to merit my waking up to greet it, though.

 

“Wake up.” A pause, then, “ _Please_.”

 

Wow. A “please”. What could have warranted _that_ ? Sherlock almost _never_ says please. It’s an event when he does. The man has so little understanding of common human interactions…

 

I waited, waited for the next verbal coaxing. It didn’t come. Instead, I heard what sounded like a choked sob, muffled and subdued, as if the person was embarrassed to be expressing such a mundane sentiment.

 

_Sentiment_ . Sherlock _hated_ sentiment. It compromised his razor-sharp logical processes, introducing the human note into what should have been a series of procedural writings, rather than the blog entries I was so fond of. My style was a bit more florid, a touch more... _romantic_ , if you will, sort of like a 19  th  century pulp novel.

 

Another sound, this one more disturbing. Someone was _crying_. Full-out, heart-broken weeping. I could feel someone’s head resting on my arm, sense the dampness on my naked skin. A hand held mine on the same side. _Someone_ was distraught.

 

“John, please. _Please_ don’t leave me. _Please,_ ” came a familiar, broken voice, full of tears.

 

_Sherlock?_ That can’t be right. Sherlock _never_ cries. Sherlock has no feelings, no emotions…

 

A kiss. On my hand. I then felt my hand being cradled against a wet cheek and kissed again. The grip on it tightened, as if desperate.

 

No, _can’t_ be Sherlock. Must be Mary. My wife. Mother of my baby girl, who was on her way to the hospital to be born . _Must_ be…

 

But, then, where is Sherlock? And the baby? No baby sounds.

 

“Why, Mycroft? Why did this have to happen?”

 

_Mycroft? What is **he** doing here? And, come to think of it, where is “here?”_

 

“Moriarty. I warned you there were people after you, Sherlock. The demons beneath the paths we walk. Yours isn’t dead.” He paused. “Yet.”

 

“He will be,” Sherlock replied, his voice tight with anger. “When I get a hold of him, I will _ensure_ that he will never be either found _or_ identified.”

 

A muted chuckle. “Please make sure we can both find _and_ identify him, Sherlock. It’s the only way we’ll be able to close our files on him. You have _no_ idea the kind of paperwork you’d inflict on us if we did it _your_ way.” There was a metallic tap on a tile floor. Mycroft. Umbrella. Inseparable.

 

“How can I make him wake up?” that familiar, baritone voice asked, half-whispering. “I’ve said just about everything I could to rouse him. I’ve even kept him apprised of my progress, such as it is.”

 

“What progress?” Mycroft asked, incredulously. “You haven’t left his bedside!”

 

_Bedside. I’m in hospital. Accident. Makes sense. Are Mary and the baby okay?_

 

Footfalls pacing. “I have resources _you_ can’t access, Mycroft. Your people are good for some things but, sometimes, it’s good to have friends in low places.”

 

“Ah, your network. Of course.”

 

“Yes. Between your information and my foot soldiers, I have been able to ascertain what Moriarty is up to. The spider’s web is still active, and I can feel its strands vibrating with every move he makes on it.”

 

“You know, you should really let me in on this...”

 

“NO.” Emphatically. “They don’t trust authority. They trust the government and the secret services even less. They trust me because I have ‘street cred’ with them. I was _one_ of them, Mycroft. For all the problems that period in my life caused, it _did_ gain me a network of loyal people who are willing to work for the justice they are denied on a daily basis.”

 

Another dry chuckle. “Dear brother, always the crusader. The dragon-slayer rescuing fair maidens...”

 

“John is _not_ a ‘fair maiden’.” The retort was sharp.

 

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied, soothingly. “He’s...so much more, isn’t he?” A pause. “To you, I mean.”

 

“He’s not a meaningless scrap of ordinariness, as you stated once before,” Sherlock growled. “I nearly hit you for that statement alone!”

 

“Ye-es, I know. Still managed to clip my ear as I ducked. Deuced thing still hurts.”

 

“You deserved it. John is lying here, facing death...”

 

_**What?**_ _When did that happen? Was the accident that bad?_

 

_Of course. I can still feel my body. I just...can’t... **move** it. My God, am I paralyzed? Jesus! _

 

“He is stable, Sherlock. The doctor said so, and he is the top of his field. It was fortunate that he was on duty when you all arrived after the accident. He was able to perform surgery quickly to relieve the pressure on his brain.”

 

A sigh. “But the others...”

 

“You are lucky you were sitting where you were, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished him, sternly. “Otherwise you would have been in serious condition, too.” The voice softened. “I was...quite distraught when I received word through my agents. I...can’t imagine the world without Sherlock Holmes in it.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Sherlock shot back, sarcastically.

 

“I was talking about _my_ world, Sherlock,” Mycroft responded, softly and with meaning.

 

There was an awkward silence. Then, “Mycroft, are you taking the piss…?”

 

“Not at all, little brother. I’ve always taken it upon myself to ensure your safety, including from _outstanding_ threats, familial or no.” The voice was gentle, sincere. “I’ve had someone following you for most of your adult life, keeping me apprised of both potential _and_ real threats to your well-being. When you took up with Dr. Watson...I can assure you, I scoped him out _thoroughly_. I thought he would either be the making, or the ruination, of you.” He chuckled again. “Still not sure which it is, even now.”

 

“He’s saved me, time and time again, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, tersely.

 

“You’ve saved each _other_ , more like,” Mycroft corrected him. “John is a man who never came home from the war. You are a man who never stopped seeking a drug high. To put it overly-simply; you are his war, and he is your drug. A mutually-dependent, enabling relationship that, somehow, _astonishingly_ , works.”

 

There was silence as I tried, again, to move my recalcitrant body. There. A twitch of a finger. A wiggle of a toe. Bit by bit, I worked to reclaim my body, listening, all the while, to the enlightening exchange going on at my bedside.

 

Someone sat. I heard the screeching of a chair as it moved. “God, what am I going to tell him about Mary?”

 

_Yes, Sherlock, do tell me about Mary._ _I’m all ears._

 

“The truth, I suppose, would be best.”

 

_Oh, definitely._

 

“God!” It was Sherlock who had sat down. His voice was coming from a lower position. “I may have a reputation for being tactless, Mycroft, but even I can’t imagine how to put a good spin on _that_ news.” He sighed, loudly. “It will _destroy_ him. He loved her _so_ much...”

 

_Loved? As in, past tense? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?_

 

 

“You _must_ , Sherlock. He won’t accept it from anyone but you. You are the only one, besides myself, who knows who she really was, and what she was doing.”

 

“And the _baby_...Mycroft...I...I _can’t_...”

 

“You _must_.” A metallic tap, hard. “This isn’t over, Sherlock. The game is still on, but some pieces have gone rogue.”

 

_Gone rogue. Not dead, then. Missing. Mary and the baby are missing. WHAT. HAPPENED?_

 

_Come on, John, wake up. Wake. The fuck. Up!_

 

Not as easy as one would think. I was wrapped in a warm, comforting darkness, no pain, no anxiety, no _anything_ except my hearing. Hearing is always the last sense to go and the first one to return. It’s a passive sense, in that it works whether you want it to or not, which was why I was secretly privy to this intriguing brotherly exchange.

 

_Drugs. I’m probably on drugs. Painkillers, or even a medically-induced coma. **That** would explain a lot. I might have had a concussion , so a coma would let my brain heal faster than if I was awake. Mycroft **did** mention surgery...that would have been a craniotomy...wait, a hole in my head? Like a gunshot? I remember Eurus... **shot** me. Craniotomy…? _

 

_I was in an accident. Last memory?_

 

_Driving. Mary in labor. I stopped to deliver it. The screech of brakes … but what about…?_

 

“I may have to become one of them. I _heard_ , Mycroft. I _heard_ who she called on her phone, before the ambulance arrived. She thought I was unconscious.”

 

“Yes. Our fox has finally showed her us her tail,” Mycroft said, by way of analogy. “She and her fellow Renard are in the wind now, along with his baby.”

 

_Wait, **his** baby? No, that’s...that’s **my** baby! Rosie. Rosamund Mary Watson… and what about all the rest , after that ? Eurus, Sherrinford, clowns...the memory drug, is that what I’m under? _

 

“DNA tests don’t lie,” Sherlock admitted, sounding totally defeated. “The baby was David’s. Mary had cheated on John _before_ their marriage and pawned off the pregnancy on John. She _knew_ that it would bind him to her. John may be an idiot sometimes...”

 

_Thank you for **that** , you pompous git! _

 

“But he is a good and honorable man who would defend her from both her enemies and her so-called ‘friends’ alike,” he finished.

 

“She had far more enemies than friends, as you know,” Mycroft reminded him.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I remember the guest list at their wedding. Everyone hated her. Magnussen was only the tip of the iceberg. He was willing to use his intel to control her, make her work for him, but, first, he had to find her ‘pressure point’. Unfortunately, he found mine at the same time.”

 

_Oh, really? This is getting seriously interesting! Do tell, Sherlock!_

 

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed. “You need to be able to manage your emotional attachments better than that. Have I taught you nothing?”

 

“Only how to be alone, and _that_ was a miserable lesson,” Sherlock shot back. “I’m not like you, Mycroft. You were always so self-possessed, so sure of yourself. You take after Mum. I’m more like Dad, in so many respects. He’s the heart of our family. The rest of us are the brains.”

 

“ _You_ got both, a dangerous combination,” Mycroft acknowledged. “If you had been more like me, you would have turned your back on your nemeses and walked away, secure in your own intellectual superiority. Instead, you let them beat you down, torment you, treat you like some...lesser being.”

 

“Like a freak,” Sherlock agreed morosely. “That’s what they call me at Scotland Yard.”

 

_The commissioner doesn’t, not anymore. He spent a week drinking his meals through a straw._

 

“And you _never_ take them to task for it. You internalize it, use it as yet another way of pummeling yourself into depression, self-loathing, and drugs.” Mycroft ticked his tongue in disapproval. “Well, at least you found someone who accepts you as you are.”

 

“Yes, only to have someone else snatch him away from me just as I realized it,” Sherlock snorted in derision. “Mary moved fast. She _knew_ I was coming back, so she oiled her way into his good graces and manipulated him into marrying her.”

 

_NO! That was **my** idea! I proposed to her, not...wait, after Sherlock interrupted my proposal, why did I wait so long to propose again? Come to think of it, I didn’t... **she** did. She nagged me into proposing again...my God! _

 

“Yes, Moriarty set her in John’s way as part of his plan. He wanted to destroy you, slowly and painfully,” Mycroft observed.

 

“’Burn out my heart’, he said,” Sherlock agreed. “He almost succeeded when John got married. I turned to drugs again. I couldn’t handle being without my blogger.”

 

_Hah! I knew it! ‘For a case’, my arse!_

 

“Then Magnussen very nearly succeeded in sealing my death warrant,” Sherlock continued. “He wanted to control Mary but ended up also controlling me.” A pause. “Or, so he thought. _No one_ controls _me_!”

 

“To which I can readily attest,” came the snarky retort. “All he had to do was ask me. It would have saved him tons of trouble.”

 

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

 

“You seriously inconvenienced me, little brother. Magnussen had a fount of information we could have milked from him, but _you_ closed that door _permanently_.”

 

“I had to save John,” Sherlock replied, his voice flat and brooking no argument.

 

“What, not Mary?”

 

The silence was deafening. _No, not Mary. Only me. But, he made a vow…_

 

“I saved Mary _incidentally_. I promised, at the reception, that I would be there for the _three_ of them. I kept my vow.”

 

“Foolishly. I could have controlled Magnussen.”

 

“Gobshite. You were _afraid_ of him. What did he have on you, Mycroft, that you tried to stop me from confronting him?”

 

Cooly. “Nothing. Not a thing, Sherlock, but I _knew_ that my favorite dragon-slayer was going to try to do something incredibly stupid, so I was trying to steer you away from it. Without success, obviously.”

 

_Dragon-slayer. Damsel-in-distress. Magnussen used similar analogies at his home...He said I was Sherlock’s ‘damsel-in-distress’, said he ‘owned’ Sherlock. **No one** owns Sherlock. _

 

I became unreasonably irritated, indicating that, perhaps, the drugs were starting to wear off.

 

“Did you know, brother mine, that Magnussen came to my hospital room after Mary shot me?” Sherlock remarked, casually.

 

“No, I was blissfully unaware, thank you very much.” He sounded miffed.

 

“Yes, well, while I was on a legal drug high, he sat down beside me, took my hand in his, and compared it to a woman’s.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Then he kissed it.”

 

“OH!”

 

“Then he said I would ‘get used to his touch’.”

 

Dead silence, then, “Bastard. I would have shot him myself, just for that. I wish you had told me this earlier, Sherlock. I would have made him back away. I will _not_ tolerate my brother being molested!”

 

_I’d have shot the bugger before Sherlock did, aiming for the balls first._

 

A dry chuckle, then, “While your concern and outrage are appreciated, Mycroft, I believe the matter is...handled.”

 

“And it _almost_ cost you your life, if Moriarty hadn’t intervened.”

 

“True. However, I wouldn’t have made it to Serbia.” The comment was suspiciously off-hand.

 

“Yes, I know. That’s why I carry Narcan with me at all times. If I hadn’t, you would have overdosed and died, right in front of your precious John.”

 

“It wouldn’t have mattered. When we shook hands, I asked him, non-verbally, of course, to come with me, and he, equally non-verbally, asked me to stay. I told him I couldn’t, and left it at that.” Sherlock sounded sad, and just a touch bitter. “Had to stay to tend to the pregnant wife, you know. Hmph. I wonder what he would have done if he’d known the truth at that moment?”

 

_I would have fucking come with you, you incredible twit._ The aggravation was slowly growing. Too many questions, and the answers were too elusive, as things currently stood.

 

“So, the accident,” Sherlock said, a propos of nothing, “why would Mary choose that moment to flee, and with a child? All she had to do was wait it out...”

 

“She would have been found out when bloodwork was done on the child. I had left _explicit_ instructions for a DNA test to be performed, having procured and analyzed some of John’s blood a while ago. I would have known _immediately_ if the child was his. If so, then the chances were that Mary was on the level. If not...”

 

_So, baby christening, no trip across Europe, no Ajay, no Evil Doctor, no bombing of 221B ... **none** of it happened? It was all a drug-induced dream? A coma haze? **Son of a bitch!** _

 

“So you’ve had your finger in the pie all along,” Sherlock said, sourly.

 

“Of course, I did,” Mycroft snapped back. “Couldn’t depend upon you to stay on top of things. You were too busy making nice with Mary to notice that she was not all that she appeared to be. All because of John.” He practically spat out the name.

 

“John. Is. _Important_ ,” Sherlock gritted back. “I was _not_ going to let him out of my life without a struggle, and if that meant having to accept Mary into mine, then I would do it. If that meant making room for his baby, I would do that, too.”

 

“All for John. _Everything_ for John. My God, Sherlock, your heart certainly _does_ rule your head, doesn’t it” Mycroft chided him.

 

“Don’t,” Sherlock’s voice held an edge that bode Mycroft no good. “Don’t go there. I love him, but I could _never_ tell him. It would be the end of our relationship. Unrequited love is uncomfortable for one of the parties involved, but the _revealing_ of such a love is a death sentence for all that went before.”

 

I heard him get up and pace around the room, but I was floored by what I had just heard. “I love him” was _not_ something I had ever expected to hear from Sherlock in this lifetime. I mean, I admire him, I respect him, I like him as a person, I would follow him to the ends of the earth, if he asked me…

 

I would shag him in a flat second. I would fuck him through the mattress while panting his name into his skin. I would tell him he was beautiful, desirable, incredible, magnificent…

 

_Fuck_ . _I think I’m in love, and it’s **not** with Mary. _

 

I bloody well _hate_ epiphanies. They upend your world without _any_ concern for the consequences.

 

“So, now, Mary, David, and the baby are on the run, you’re barely walking yourself, and John is in a coma,” Mycroft summed up. “What are you planning on doing, Sherlock? Another hare-brained scheme to catch Moriarty’s agents who caused the accident? Considering the circumstances, I would advise against it.”

 

“I exposed Mary as an assassin while I was internally bleeding from a gunshot wound, Mycroft,” Sherlock sassed.

 

“Ample evidence of your impulsivity, Sherlock. Don’t you think it best to recover first, before heading out to tilt at another windmill?”

 

_For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, stay! Don’t go running around half-cocked without me! You’ll get killed!_

 

“I don’t know, yet. I will stay until John is out of danger, and then I will formulate a plan to ensure his continued safety. After all, killing John _was_ the entire point of this campaign,” Sherlock revealed.

 

_Wait, what?_

 

“Ah, you mean the whole ‘burning your heart out’ thing. Yes, I can see that. Killing John...”

 

“I would have nothing left but a need for vengeance. After that...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, but his intent was clear.

 

“It would be Danger Night every night, wouldn’t it, Sherlock?”

 

Silence. Then, “Not for long. Life would be meaningless for me without him.” His voice was emotionless, edged in pain.

 

_NO, NO, YOU BRAINLESS MORON, YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO ME, NOT NOW THAT I KNOW…!_

 

“N-n-n-o-o-o” I moaned, finally managing to gain temporary control of my vocal cords and tongue. Both felt thick as cold beef.

 

There was the sound of scurrying in the room as a body hit the side of the bed and something warm grabbed my hand. Another something landed on my forehead, brushing my hair back.

 

“John! John, can you hear me?” Sherlock said, urgently.

 

_Yes, I can hear you, you bloody idiot. You’re right in my ear!_

 

“Shhhherr,” I hissed weakly, turning my face toward his voice. I still couldn’t open my eyes. It felt like two elephants were sitting on my lids. The thing on my forehead stroked my hair gently. I finally figured out it was Sherlock’s hand. It felt...really nice.

 

“John,” he whispered. “Thank God.”

 

I felt my hand lifted and a kiss was planted on the back of it. I guess he forgot that I was awake, or he expected me not to notice, but I didn’t care. It _also_ felt really nice. Sherlock has nice lips. I watch them when he’s talking. I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

 

“Whaaad...haaa...” I croaked out.

 

“There was an accident, John,” Sherlock said, speaking in an excited rush of relief. “You were ejected from the car, hitting your head in the process. You’re in hospital, now. They had to do a craniotomy on you. You’ve been in a coma for a week.”

 

A week. Plenty of time for them to get away to someplace we’ll never find them. Strangely, I decided that I didn’t actually care anymore. Let them go and be happy together. I doubted either one of them would live long enough to matter, anyway. I just felt sorry for the baby.

 

“Mmmmaaaarryyy,” I bleated, like a goat. I expected a lie. I got a half-truth instead.

 

“Mary’s fine. So’s the baby,” Sherlock assured me. “An ambulance brought all of us here. I wasn’t hurt badly, just knocked out for a few, along with some brilliant bruises. Mary and the baby were examined in A&E and given a clean bill of health. _You_ , it seems, got the worst of it.”

 

“Hmh,” I grunted in understanding. I was _so_ tired, my body felt like it was made out of lead, but I had to say something important. “Don’...go...”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked. I could feel him lean in to hear my words better. I summoned up the energy and repeated, “Don’...go...wi’out...me.”

 

Sherlock’s hand moved from my head to my hand, enclosing it between his two.

 

“John, I have to...”

 

“No.” I was adamant. “You go...I go.” I cracked open an eye just as his mouth opened to rebut me. I finally knew how to shut him up.

 

“Lo-ove...youu,” I croaked out, feeling my energy waning just when I needed it the most.

 

Just before my eyelid slid shut, I saw something I would cherish for the rest of my life. Sherlock’s face transformed into the softest, most relieved, most overwhelmed expression I have ever beheld. His eyes suddenly filled with tears that slipped down those impressive cheekbones unbidden, and those full lips trembled. Just as my eye closed, I caught sight of that gorgeous face approaching mine, and felt those plush lips against my own. They felt... _wonderful_. Miraculous. Like a waking dream.

 

Our lips parted and, as I slipped into a well-needed sleep, I heard him say, “I love you, John Watson. Always have, always will.”

 

Bastard. Leave it to him to have the last word, as always.


End file.
